dry my eyes
by breeshell
Summary: An older Watson/Holmes seen from the perspective of Holmes' daughter. Watson hasn't been the same since Mary died.


Title: dry my eyes  
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson, an OC female  
Rating: PG i suppose  
Summary: An older Watson/Holmes seen from the perspective of Holmes' daughter. Watson hasn't been the same since Mary died.  
Spoilers: None from the movie, but the characters are based on that creation  
Notes/Warnings: I may or may not be totally BSing certain things about college and women during the early 1900s, so there you go with that.  
Disclaimer: Only Wilhelmina is mine.

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_**dry my eyes**_

He sees her from the crack in the curtains. She is tall and wears her dark hair down, it curls at the shoulders. Her dress is light green, a stunning color on her, just like her mother. She takes only one bag from the carriage and turns to the building. His fingers hold the fabric of the curtain as he watches her go up the stairs and hears the knocking of the door. Mrs. Hudson answers and he moves away from the window.

He thinks about cleaning things up; just for her arrival, it's not every day that he sees his daughter, his one and only child. He should move away the newspaper clippings, make sure that she has somewhere to sit, but there is no time. Mrs. Hudson knocks before just opening the door. "Ms. Adler here to see you sir."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Wilhelmina says. "Perhaps some tea?"

"Yes. It's always a treat to have you here, Miss," she says before heading out. Wilhelmina steps further in and closes the door behind her. She drops her bag and puts her hands on her hips. "Weren't you expecting me?"

"Of course." He pulls a jacket tighter around his body and flops down in his chair, sinking into the cushion. "Your mother didn't come did she?" he raises a brow.

Mina shakes her head and takes off her silly hat, putting it on a table. A table with two photographs, of Irene, more that thirty years old now, and one of herself as a baby. There is a stack of unread newspapers, a pile of opened letters. "No, she's still in New Jersey, with the new husband."

He sneers and folds and unfolds his jacket. "Who's the lucky man this time?"

"Be nice," she tells him absently. For years she's endured his remarks about her mother, not that she blames him. If the only woman she ever loved ran off with her only child, she'd be upset too. "She sends her regards." Mina goes through the stack of letters, all requests for him to take on cases. He's made notes on them, scratched things out. "Haven't you taken on any new cases?"

He scoffs and carelessly turns to his side table where his pipe rests. He refills the tobacco. "Don't be silly, Mina." He lights it up. "I've been exceedingly busy."

She puts the letters back in their pile. "Good." The one sliver of light comes through the dark room, cutting like glass. She moves to the windows.

"Mina, don't," he warns. She ignores him. "Wilhelmina."

She rips open the curtains and he shields his eyes. "You need light, Father." In the sunlight she takes in her father's dress and mood. He is unshaven, his eyes are red and drooped. There is gray in his hair, lines around his eyes and mouth. The jacket and shirt he wears are not his; the garments are a size too big, and too well taken care of. Her lips tweak a bit.

He takes notice of her taking notice of him. "Weren't you taught not to stare?"

"Yes," she answers. "But Mother did say I got all my bad habits from my father."

"Well." He puffs on the pipe.

Mina continues to go through the desks, lifting papers, pausing at a few of his obscure inventions. He is quiet as she does so. "What brings you to London?" he asks.

"School." She picks up a magnifying glass and slowly twirls it. The light catches and moves across the wall. "I've decided to go to Oxford. It would help if you made an appearance; the deadline for admissions has passed. I've all ready got the money."

"They've decided to take on women?"

She is going through his clothes, opening and closing drawers, pulling out anything that is clean; trousers, suspenders and shirts. "Of course not. I'll be taking these." She tosses them onto her bag.

He is amused by his daughter's antics and cracks a sidewise smile.

Mina continues going through his things. Above the fireplace on the mantel are two more photographs; another one of her, this time as a child, sent from Irene. The second is a framed newspaper clipping, front page, announcing the final case closed by the infamous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. As she passes, she notices a cane leaning against a fireplace. Old and yet well taken care of. She picks it up; it is heavy in her grasp. "Where is he?"

Holmes freezes, the pipe tight in his grip. His daughter is not stupid and he does not lie. "Out."

"How long this time?"

He chews on the end of the pipe before setting it on the table. He slips one hand in his pocket.

"He hasn't been the same since Mary passed, has he?" she gently asks.

Mina's heart pangs as she does so. Mary Morstan, the woman that threw her father's life about, stealing his best friend, his secret love. Oh Mary was kind enough, lovely enough, if she'd been marrying any other man in all of the world, Holmes would have been fine, but she picked the wrong one. After a while Holmes had been nice, he'd stopped his overly ridiculous antics to keep them apart, he attended the wedding.

"It's not your fault," she tells him.

He stares at her a moment, then down to the floor. "I know that."

Six months ago, Mary died in childbirth, taking the baby with her, a son. Watson hadn't been there, hadn't gotten to say goodbye, to be happy, just for a few moments before realizing that his child was dead, his wife to quickly follow. No, he'd gone out with his dear friend Holmes, gone out to follow up on an old case. He hadn't been there.

"Where is he?"

"Around this time, probably the river. He'll stop by the fights as soon as the sun sets. He'll be in no later than one in the morning. He will not sleep, he will sit, right in that very spot." He points to the better cared for chair of the two by the fireplace. "Watches the flames dance until sunrise."

Was he this sad when her mother left, Mina wonders. "He'll come around," she says. Holmes moves to his desk, flops down and stuffs both hands in his pockets. So much has been tarnished by his jealousy. Maybe if he'd paid attention to Irene more than just sex, she'd had stayed around as well.

Mina moves to where he sits and stands in front of him. "You know that he'll come around." He does his best not to catch her gaze; a gaze that matches his own.

She's not an idiot; she knows what is really going on. She leans down and kisses him on the cheek, and touches his shoulder. "Poor old guy."

Finally he looks up at her. "I'm not old."

***

That night Mina reads by the fire. Her father has gone out. She followed him briefly, until he stopped at the river. She let him on his way, letting him trace the tracks of his lost companion.

While she waits, she picks up his violin. Old and small. Once and only once did she pick it up and try to play it, when she was about six. She was scolded then later that night while she fell asleep her father played for her. She plucks a sting and tunes it. She takes the bow and slowly plays over it, a small lullaby played for crying children. Outside it is silent; unusual for London. Over her playing she hears the door downstairs open and close, someone shuffling around, then coming up the stairs. She puts down the violin.

Watson enters. He's very changed sine the last time she'd seen him, not just physically. She sees it in his eyes, once a brilliant shade of blue, now dull and grayish. But when he sees her there, sitting in his spot, wearing trousers, a long fitted shirt, her legs crossed over, he does his best to put on a smile. She's beautiful like her mother, stark raving mad like her father. "Mina," he says and comes forward. She stands and they greet with a brief kiss. He tastes of cheap beer, even cheaper tobacco. "How lovely to see you."

"Yes," she says and sits back down. "Did Father tell you I was coming?"

"Of course," he takes off his coat and hangs it. "Not expected you to be still awake."

"Yes, It's the traveling from across the way."

Dear Watson sits across from her. He is uncomfortable in her presence, she can tell. He is tight and stiff, still sobering up. "How is your mother?" he asks.

"Wonderful. She sent her deepest sympathy...we both did."

Watson looks down and his fists tighten. He thinks she doesn't notice. "Yes, thank you."

The silence between them is strong, almost solid, the only sound is the crackling of the fire, jumping and popping, red and orange flames. "How about some tea?" she offers.

He shakes his head politely. "No, it's far too late-"

She stands up. "It's no trouble."

As she passes him, she puts a hand on his shoulder. He is cold from outside. "He misses you," she whispers. Watson only nods and Mina exits, quietly, not quite closing the door all the way.

Watson's gut burns from the mixture of alcohol and chips. He watches the fire a bit, trying to make shapes and patterns with his blurred eyes. Perfectly he hears Mina down stairs, discovering the kitchen. Blue moon light comes through the window. He stands and goes to close the door then lingers between the space of the rooms, seeing into the bedroom. A bed with turned down sheets and that hasn't been slept in for weeks. He undoes his suspenders and kicks off his shoes. The bed is cold, the pillows stiff.

***

Holmes comes in the back and stops to investigate the kitchen. Recently someone was down here. Upstairs in the room he finds a tray with tea and cups on it on a desk, untouched. The fire is dying down. Mina has fallen asleep in his chair, reading. Carefully he takes the book from her and, tosses it on the floor. He takes off his coat and drapes it over her shoulders and puts his hand on her head a moment, stroking her dark hair. She stirs, but does not wake.

He ruffles his own hair as he passes the threshold to the bedroom and pauses at the door frame. A figure in the bed that shifts at his presence. Watson lifts his head. Holmes stands perfectly still. "What are you doing here?" he asks casually.

"Come to bed," Watson says and rolls over.

Holmes takes a deep breath and does as requested. Not another word is said. They both sleep.


End file.
